Atrophied Wife

Illustration by Bob AulCall this the confession of a trophy wife. Yours. Remember how when we dated, you told me that you loved me for my social conscience? That you wanted to slow down in business and follow me into campaigns against homelessness, poverty and AIDS? That I "completed" you? I was going to open up new worlds, you said—help you feel good about all the money you've made by using it to make the world a better place. My friends warned me that the age gap between us was weird, that you were more like my father than my husband, but you and I brushed them off as jealous. Well, we've been married for five years, and you've written a few checks to worthy causes and gotten a lot more wrinkled. The only thing flabby about me is my conscience. For too long, I've let your avarice keep me from exercising my responsibility to others. You want me home every night when you get there. You want me with you at business functions. Every time I ask you to actually host a fund-raiser with me, you're too busy closing a deal here, flying to meet someone there. You can't even attend a "gala ball" with all of our rich acquaintances. I go alone or not at all. And now I can see that the only real "cause" that interests you is your money. Last week, I turned into a witch—remember, barring the door so that you had to push me aside? When you drove off to that business meeting, did you think about what I'd said—that you married me for my fake tits? I meant it, even though those don't seem to interest you much anymore. Did you mean what you said—that I had married you for your money? If you did, here's your answer: I'm leaving as soon as I arrange a means of escape.

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